But let’s say that Asimova was mine biologically, let’s say that she had my looks and my brain and my good nature, let’s even say that she lacked linguistic aptitude, disliked going outside the house, and wanted to give all her toys away – was that any reason for me to be proudly and paternally possessive? Surely, for someone who found all family resemblance the painful trial that I did, the opposite had to be the case. If we are to be logical and consistent about this, wouldn’t she have stood a better chance of winning my affection if she had resembled Rowland Fitzpiers? What did I want with a child that had me as a father?

Not that Sharon and Fitzpiers – let there be absolutely no mistake about this – were pressing me to take Asimova from them. A more doting pair of parents, according to every report that came my way, could not be found. I’m sure that Fitzpiers would have fought me with his fists if I’d dared to come near the child, let alone suggest that she might spend a summer fishing with me in Castle Boterel. So what were they up to? Why did a new photograph of the growing Asimova arrive through my letter box – through Camilla’s letter box, rather – every fortnight? And why, once a year, did Sharon’s solicitors write to remind me of the presumption of legitimacy law and Asimova’s birthday? I can only suppose that what they wanted was a cheque. To help defray the cost of their rapture. It seemed to burn a hole in Sharon’s brain that Asimova hadn’t cost me anything. ‘Why should he get off scot-free?’ she asked every one who knew me. We appear to share a basic assumption after all, Sharon and I, even though our vocabularies differ: we both agree that propagation ought to hurt.

As for my mother, her interest in the subject isn’t difficult to fathom. For a start she is hurt. My lack of enthusiasm for what comes after she takes as a slur on what went before. In fact she is no more in love with her own image than reason – notwithstanding Mr Flatman – tells her she should be; but the other side of self-dislike is self-assertion – if you can’t join them, beat them – the practical consequence of which is that she wants her likeness (my likeness, our likeness, it’s all one) stamped far and wide on generation after hungry generation. The ideology of proliferation is native to all oppressed peoples. Thus my indifference to Asimova was not just unnatural, it was bad politics.

‘You should see her – she’s almost up to my shoulder,’ my mother informed me this morning.

Well, she’d chosen a bad time to ring. ‘Mother, so is Menashe Flatman,’ I told her. ‘And I don’t want to hear anything about him either.’

With which I put the phone down on her.